The Definition of Freedom
by Fuzzy Lumpkin
Summary: It wasn't good to be a Jew in Germany of 1938. Being in love with a German at that time was not good either. It's the story of Titanic, only Jack's a Jew is and Rose is from a rich German family. Can they make ends meet? Only true love can do that.


**A/N: note: the following not will be long and tedious, but it might of intrests to any jews reading it out there who take offense easily to read it. for those who care, no, i am not anti-sematic. no, i am not against jews. no, i do not think the germans should have won ww2. no, i do not side with the germans on this. should anybody care, i myself am jewish. i was sitting in hebrew school today listening to a holocaust survivor tell her story and decided it would make a sort-of present time story for titanic. i will try to update soon, but i have a lot going on right now so no promises.**

**DISCLAIMER: this is for the rest of the story. i do not own the holocaust or any of the evints written in this. i don not own the characters in titanic. i do, however, own my own characters when i decide to make them. their names are freee for the taking, if anybody should want them.**

October 21, 1938 Berlin, Germany

I woke up like I did every morning and glanced at my picture on the wall. The huge poster of Hitler stared right back.

"Hail Hitler," I murmured in a drowsy voice. I had hardly gotten any sleep last night, with the Gestapo moving all the Jews in that area of the city to a nearby ghetto. I didn't even know why they bothered to do it at night; everybody knew and respected what was being done—except, of course, the Jews. Although I wasn't the most active supporter of the Nazis, I knew they were doing our best to make Germany the country it had once been. And I was willing to accept that, even though the supreme loss of human life and freedom irked me to no end. But what was I, a sixteen year old girl, going to do about it? I wanted to do something, but I didn't have time to sympathize for the Jews because I had quite a few problems of my own.

First, there was my father. My father had been a well respected Nazi and Gestapo officer. Our family name was well known and worth something. We had been rich, too. But then on one pogrom, he had been killed by a rebellious Jew, and the even Adolf Hitler himself went to the funeral service. And although I knew it was wrong, I couldn't help but think that it was fair. My father had gotten what he deserved, and I had never been close to him, anyway. I cried at the funeral, sure, but I didn't miss my father at all.

My mother had always been a demanding sort of person. She was always concerned about public opinion and social standing. Although the Zimmermann's were rich people, she always wanted more. And, after my father's death, she had found out about numerous debts that had needed to be paid. When they were paid, there was almost no money left.

Her back-up plan left another problem for me. Although I was just 16, I could be married in four short years. That was where Caledon Hockley came in. Cal's father was a close friend of Hitler, and my mother could only imagine what would happen if I were to marry Cal; she set us up.

At first glance, I thought I had fallen in love with the kind, handsome man whose name was Caledon Hockley. After the first few dates, we began officially dating, and still I saw no problem with him. But then, at our sixth month anniversary, Cal was exposed for the monster he really was. I often spoke of my desire to help the Jews, and Cal insisted he agreed. I was walking home from school one day when I came across Cal, ruthlessly kicking a young Jewish girl. When I stopped him, he insisted she had been stealing from him, but I knew it was a lie. After that, little motions I had never noticed before stuck out: the way he tipped Germans much more than Jews; how whenever he lost his temper, it was near a Jew; whenever a Jew asked for directions, he pretended he didn't know; if he bought something from a Jewish store he always demanded his money back saying the item was broken, and so forth.

When I broke up with him, he slapped me harder than I had ever seen him hit a Jew—and that's saying something. He only cried out, "you'll be sorry" and stalked away. I though I was done with him, but then my very own mother forced me back with him.

With my own problems, I could hardly spare a second though for the Jews.

I felt trapped. I was practically engaged, at just sixteen. My father, the only one—I realize now—who ever cared for me, respected my thoughts and interests, is gone. I feel like I'm back in the early 20th century, and there's nowhere to go, no place to run, not a spot to hide.

Sixteen years into my life, and I was already done living.


End file.
